Nightmares of Music
by rebuild-your-ruins
Summary: John has another nightmare of Afghanistan, and he wakes up to Sherlock playing his violin. Turns out Sherlock's had a nightmare of his own...  ShWatsonlock


Nightmares of Music

(I do not own Sherlock, if I did I would be partying with Benedict right now.)

My eyes opened alertly as my usual nightmare came to an end. It played in my head every night, reversed itself whilst I was awake, and replayed itself as the sun went down. But I hadn't gotten used to it. I haven't yet, and I doubt I ever will.

I stare at the ceiling as sweat peels down my face. The terror swimming in my eyes is soon replaced with a feeling recognized as being tired. I want so badly to return to sleep, but the nightmare still lingers in my thoughts. I don't want to give it the chance to repay itself.

I lay there, the ideas of sleeping or not battling it off in my head. I think about it for a while before realizing there's music playing. No doubt it's Sherlock, but the notes are so well played. Not once have I heard him play this way, the notes waltz into the air, they fly before being replaced with new notes. I close my eyes and listen. Some part of my mind knows and recognizes the song, the sounds, the pitch of the music, but no name registers. The song is very melancholy, the notes poke at my heart, and after sitting still for a couple of minutes, the song conquers my mind. My thoughts dance in rhythm to the violin's soft music. I find it easy to imagine Sherlock playing, his fingers caressing the violin as thousands of notes flutter past, speaking freely amongst each other. His messy obsidian curls gliding along his forehead as he sways gently to his music.

I soon find myself with the urge to get up; to go downstairs and wrap my arms around him as he sways, to tell him how beautiful his music is; how beautiful he is. But how am I to know he'd approve? What if he pulled away, disgusted by my open feelings for him? Besides, why would he love me? I'm merely an old, beaten up army doctor. Sherlock is beautiful, brilliant, sure he can be a bit arrogant at times, but we all have our faults, right?

But the urge is too strong, and I feel no regrets as I make my way down the stairs. Soft, hollow thuds echoing slightly as I walked down the stairs.

Sherlock was standing in front of the window, his fingers kissing the violin as his notes move on. His eyes are closed, and he sways gently, his body waltzing carelessly in rhythm to the music. He hits the highest of notes with ease, his hand quickly changing octaves. The voice of the violin changes considerably, from deep, smooth noises, to high-pitched, quivering notes. The high notes descend to deep notes, and the deep notes continue to ascend. The music stopped only when my presence was heard.

Sherlock's eyes open, revealing pale rainy eyes, appearing slightly red at the rims as if he's been crying. Our eye contact breaks, and he glances at the violin before looking back up to me.

''Did I wake you?'' he inquires.

''No. That song was beautiful, though.'' I admire.

''Yes, well, Vivaldi never ceases to amaze the mind, I suppose.'' He answers.

''Vivaldi; so that's what it was?'' I wonder aloud.

''Indeed. He's my favorite composer.'' He states, slowly placing the instrument back into its case. Sherlock then sits on the couch, placing his face into his pale, slender hands and sighs.

''So why are you up? I thought you were sleeping when I went to bed?'' I ask.

''When you went to bed, yes. Obviously I woke up.'' He says.

''Oh.'' I was simply too tired to be agitated by his arrogance. Or maybe I was too in love?

''You had a nightmare.'' He says simply. ''I heard you. You talk in your sleep. Especially during a nightmare. When you stopped, and I could no longer hear you, I realized you must have woken up.'' He explains. ''Was it Afghanistan?''

I look at my feet. ''Yes.'' I mumble.

''You're embarrassed.'' Sherlock looked up at me. ''There's no reason to be, you know. I had a nightmare as well.''

At that I looked up. My eyebrows furrowed slightly and I was highly aware of the confused expression hovering on my face. Sherlock noticed before I could put an end to it, and he looked away, looking slightly agitated.

''Yes, believe it or not, I have nightmares. No, they aren't exactly the same as yours, but I have enough feelings to be afraid, John.'' Sherlock mumbled in a quick, deep voice.

''I'm sorry… I didn't mean to… well… so what was your nightmare about, then? You said they weren't like anyone's. So what happened?''

Sherlock shook his head. A short sigh issued from his lips. ''Um… as pedestrian as it sounds, I don't really want to talk about it.'' A small blush appeared on the man's high cheekbones. I smiled a little and sat down next to him.

We sat there a while, no words were spoken, there were none needed, honestly. After a while, he spoke.

''What was the worst thing about Afghanistan?'' he asks without looking up.

Immediately, memories swam back to the surface of my mind. Memories of dying soldiers, of children being blown to bits, of all the people I failed to save. I push them away as I find an answer.

''Probably the fact that I couldn't wear my jumpers.'' I answer comically.

Sherlock smiles, though he doesn't look up. I see it grace his lips, though he tries his best to hide it.

I lean back and rest my head on the couch. My hands fold together and rest lazily on my stomach. I close my eyes momentarily but open them again as I feel something rest on my shoulder. A quick glance revealed Sherlock's head on my shoulder, the rest of him sprawled out across the remaining space on the couch. The back of his head leans gently against my shoulder, his obsidian curls brushing softly against my bare neck.

I bite my lip to stop myself from smiling like an idiot. Sherlock swallows slowly.

'' I was alone.'' His statement is simple, but I understand quickly. He continues, ''in my dream I mean. I was alone and I knew it would resume that way. It was dark. I was curled into a ball and I could hear you screaming. I knew it was you, John. I don't know how, but I knew. Possibly, you were screaming from your own nightmares, and the sounds made their way into my sleeping mind. But you were screaming and I couldn't help you.'' His voice cracks.

''I tried to help you. I tried, but I couldn't move.'' He runs a hand through his curls. Tears fall freely from his eyes, as if those rainy eyes of his were genuinely raining. And in a way, I guess they were. His tears led to sobs as he continued.

''A-and I knew I had to help you, you're my only friend I didn't want to be alone anymore, John, I just didn't want to be alone!'' Sherlock finishes. As he was talking, he had sat up, and now sat with his face in his hands, choked sobs issuing from his lips.

I slowly wrap my arms around him.

''Sherlock… Sherlock it's okay. I'm here, see? It was just a dream. I'm fine, I assure you.'' I said, trying to calm him down.

''It's okay.'' I assure him.

''**You're not alone anymore.''**

_A/N:_

_Thanks for reading~! And PLEASE review! You don't know how much they mean to me! Review and tell me what you liked, what you didn't like, why you liked it, why you didn't like it, who you're favorite Sherlock character is, I don't care! Just please review! Thanks!_

_SH_


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